This here is Ed giving our goldfish pond a Spring cleaning--an annual reminder of the farsightedness of my decision to get into the art game. Arteests have to protect their hands, you see, not to mention their delicate and hair-trigger minds, which must be shielded from manual labor, business meetings, and anything icky in general. I think it’s fair to say that artists are the world’s elite, a breed that has risen just a little bit higher on the evolutionary scale than the rest of you. We’re special people, with special needs--in fact, I’ve heard that very term applied to me on several occasions. And in exchange for allowing me not to have to muck out goldfish ponds, I provide you with sketches when I feel like it. Wonderful sketches filled with the drama and pathos of ordinary mortals, the something of victory, the something of defeat. That I’m able to maintain an air of humility while performing these feats is nothing short of flabbergasting. Now if I can only work money into the equation, I’ll be a happy camper. Except camping is icky.